G.I.Joe-Black Ops
by Thrasher
Summary: A group of former Joes are recruited to form a special ops force


GIJOE-Black Ops. The halls echoed as Sergeant Conrad S. Hauser, formerly known as Duke, of the late G.I.JOE unit marches briskly along the winding path that led to General Clayton Abernathy's corner office in one of the most famous institutions in the United States of America. Two marines in dress uniform flanked him, their spit shined boots gleaming under the florescent lights that lit the hall. "This is it, Sir" spoke one of the marines, as they arrived in front of a solid oak door. "Thank you, Corporal." replied Sgt. Hauser, "I think I'll be right from here." The two marines saluted, then marched back from the direction they had come.  
  
Hauser lightly tapped the door, waiting for the invitation to enter. No reply was forthcoming, so Hauser knocked again, somewhat more forcefully. "Come in" drifted a voice through the door. Hauser turned the solid brass handle of the door and pushed it forward. The heavy oak barely made a peep as it swung forward. "Sgt. Hauser reporting for duty as ordered" he said, standing at attention. "At ease Duke," replied a figure seated behind a desk "I never considered myself a real figure of authority when I was in charge of G.I.JOE. We were a unit that differed from the norm. That's why I always asked to be called Hawk. What made me better then the other men?" Hawk rose from his desk and gripped Hauser's hand firmly. Likewise, General Clayton Abernathy was in dress uniform. His uniform neatly pressed, his presence commanded respect. "True Hawk, true. Being back in regular army where I have to answer to pencil pushers hasn't been the best way to spend the last few months since the team disbanded." Duke responded. "Yeah I know." lamented Hawk. "Life just hasn't been the same since. But Clinton's hell bent on cutting back the services, and since the outfit has outgrown its usefulness with Cobra going out of business..I suppose people can see his point." "Then what exactly have you summoned me all the way to Washington for then General" asked Duke, a keen look of interest on his face. "You'll have to wait until General Hollingsworth gets here so both you and I will know," smiled Hawk. "Because I have no idea why I dragged you down here myself." Hawk reached into the top drawer of a rather sparse looking desk, and retrieved a large stack of sheets of paper. "These are my orders," said Hawk, a bemused expression on his face. "Thirty pages long, and it basically says that I have to summon you to Washington." "Well I'm here," spoke Duke. "Too bad the powers that be can't keep to a schedule," responded Hawk. "But that's how most officials get into power, by stuffing real soldiers around." A sharp tap on the door indicated the arrival of the remaining members of the assembly. "Come in," called Hawk. The door handle turned and in strode General Hollingworth, followed by another man in dress uniform, his chest blazoned in medals. "General Abernathy, Sergeant Hauser, meet General Hampshire," growled General Hollingsworth. "Pleasure Sir," Hawk responded, his hand raised in salute, Duke doing likewise. General Hampshire stuck out his hand and firmly gripped Hawk's hand, followed by Duke's. General Rohan Hampshire stood six foot one, was thick set, and had slicked back hair that appeared to be thinning on top. He had a close-cropped moustache that looked very similar to that worn by Errol Flynn in the 1930's. Duke didn't like the feel of the clammy grip of Hampshire. He had hands that appeared to be well maintained, and seemed out of place for a military man. "The pleasure's all mine," replied Hampshire. "I was a big fan of the G.I.JOE unit. It's a pity that the politics got in the way and destroyed the core of what was one of the toughest special forces of all time. I actually led some of the original members of the team into battle in Vietnam, that was many years ago now though." Hawk gestured both Hollingsworth and Hampshire to two overstuffed leather seats in front of his desk. They both took seats. "I think I remember hearing about a Rohan Hampshire who was a Sergeant and helped most of a platoon escape capture even though they were forty miles behind enemy lines," recalled Duke. "That wouldn't be you would it?" "One and the same," Hollingsworth spoke up. "And now we are in a position where we need you Sgt Hauser. Both you and General Abernathy will play an important part in this program." "What exactly is this program?" questioned Hawk. "I received a thirty page document requesting that I bring Duke down here, using taxpayers money, and I can't find mention of exactly why his presence is required." "We'll get to that in a matter of minutes," responded Hampshire. "If you'll both come with me." "Exactly where are we going?" asked Hawk. "I don't like being kept in the dark, especially when I apparently play an important role in the mission." "The briefing will take place in a few minutes. As soon as we get to the helicopter pad." spoke Hollingsworth. "Now if you gentlemen will follow me." Hollingsworth rose and led the trio to the door. There was silence as they strode down the passage towards the nearest exit that led to the helicopter pad. As the foursome approached, Duke noticed that sitting on the helicopter pad was a former G.I.JOE test chopper, known as 'The Retaliator.' "Hop aboard gentlemen," shouted Hollingsworth, as the engines fired up, the rotor continuing to gain speed. "The briefing proper will take place once we are airborne." "The Retaliator is only set up to carry two passengers," roared Hawk, "It's an attack chopper." "This version has been specially customised for my personal use. I had all the weaponry removed so that the craft could accommodate passengers," screamed Hampshire in reply. Hawk climbed the steps that led to the rear partician of the helicopter. Sure enough there were four seats in what was a very cramped quarters. Hampshire followed Hawk, then Hollingsworth, with Duke bringing up the rear. Once the officers were seated and buckled in, the pilot took off, blowing dirt and leaves in all directions. Once the Retaliator rose to fifteen thousand feet Hampshire began the briefing. "General Abernathy, Sergeant Hauser," he began, "As you know, our current government is not a big supporter of the military in any fashion, and with the decommissioning of the GIJOE program, and the cutbacks in military spending, the United States is in probably the weakest position of it's history. We are more susceptible to terrorist attacks then we have been ever before." "And we fit in where?" asked Duke, "Excuse me for sounding impatient, but I have just flown for four hours across the country without any idea why. I'm then bundled into a helicopter to hear about the state of the country which I serve, and I still have no idea why I am here." "We're recommissioning the G.I.JOE team," spoke Hollingsworth. "You're what?" chorused both Hawk and Duke in unison. "Well not exactly," replied Hampshire. "We have been given permission by the President of the United States to recreate what GIJOE once was, a lean, mean, fighting machine. We will only require a hand full of the G.I.JOE force. Remember in the beginning there were sixteen of the fastest, toughest, smartest soldiers in the forces. Then the team grew and the press got wind of the unit. There were politics and pretty soon G.I.JOE was one of the largest Special Forces units around." "What we are trying to do" spoke up Hollingsworth, "Is to try and return to what G.I.JOE was originally about. A small anti-terrorist unit that is mobile, can work internationally and that the United States can deny the existence of." "So we're basically a goon squad for the government?" asked Hawk. "Well not you Hawk" replied Hampshire. "You will be a liaison between Duke and myself or General Hollingsworth. Hollingsworth took over, "Duke, you will be the link between Hawk and the team. There will be no official involvement of any United States military personal. All team members will be dismissed from their perspective forces." "So you're saying that basically everybody who will be involved except us is going to have a gun pointed at their heads if they get into trouble," spoke Duke "And how are you going to recruit anyone into a lose-lose situation?" "We aren't Sgt. Hauser," said Hampshire, "You are." "So you senior officers are totally unaccountable," spat Duke, unimpressed. "Yes. It would be highly embarrassing if the new G.I.JOE team should fail in their first mission" replied Hollingsworth. "There is political turmoil again in Sierra Gordo. It would be ahh.unpleasant if the situation became something that we couldn't control." "And what exactly are you planning on doing, or should I say, what are the team planning on doing?" asked Hawk. "I'm not going to risk the lives of men who served under me for some absurd mission in a volatile country." "We'll go into more detail once you have recruited a team" said Hampshire. "Okay" Duke thought out loud. "Snake Eyes is a certainty.." "Actually Snake Eyes is status non grata," mumbled Hollingsworth. "What? Why? How do you expect me to run a force without my best operative?" questioned Duke. "The powers that be have decided that he is too controversial," replied Hampshire. "They want members of the G.I.JOE team who were almost anonymous in their tenure. The late bloomers if you will, but still members who proved themselves suitable. We have actually accumulated a list of who we would like to join the team." He handed both Duke and Hawk thick manila folders. Inside contained sixteen folios with sixteen former G.I.JOE's profiles in them. "Beach Head, Repeater, Tunnel Rat, Chuckles." read Hawk. "Hey it's old Watzisname," exclaimed Duke. "Outback, Torpedo, Hit and Run, Recondo, Recoil, Down Town, Effects, Skymate. Why Skymate?" "Honestly I don't know," spoke Hollingsworth. "He sort of became a member of the SEALs. He was in the Australian SAS beforehand." "Well Alpine, Mirage and Rampart round up our merry little group of marauders," said Hampshire. "What do you think?" "What do I think?" repeated Duke. A smile crept onto his face. "I don't know about you Hawk, but I think it's a go."  
  
The helicopter descended from the sky, and returned to the pad, which it had taken off from some minutes before. "General Abernathy, shall you do the honours?" asked General Hollingsworth, handing Hawk a velvet box. He opened the box and removed a set of captain's stripes. "Very well," spoke Hawk "First Sergeant Hauser, you are now Captain Hauser, United States Army, and official liaison to the unofficial G.I.JOE team." Abernathy then pinned the bars on the lapels of Duke's jacket. "Thank you, sir," replied Duke, his right hand touching his brow in a salute. "Generals." "Congratulations Duke," spoke Hampshire, "Go get 'em." With that final statement, the two generals walked back to the Retaliator and boarded. Hawk and Duke watched as the chopper slowly rose from the deck, the current from the rotors blowing up a storm of dust. The helicopter banked sharply to the right, and flew upwards and to the west. Hawk and Duke watched as it faded into the distance. "Well.." said Hawk as he pushed open the glass door they had ventured out of earlier, "That was certainly an interesting turn of events." "Yes it was," responded Duke. "What do you make of it? Personally I would like to take this for what the generals said, but you know just as well as I do that the deeper into this we get, the more trouble the platoon will be in. We both served with the guys who will probably be involved, and I don't want to compromise the lives of those men for some needless mission just to stroke some general's ego." They strolled back into Hawk's office and shut the door. Both took a seat. "I agree wholeheartedly with you Duke," drawled Hawk, "But orders are orders, and we have them in writing." Hawk raised the manila folder that Hollingsworth had given him on board the chopper. "And from what I understand, the mission is strictly on a volunteer basis. If the troops don't like the deal, they don't have to take part." "So that means our number of troops could fall from sixteen men to three or four," shot back Duke. "I hate to be a pessimist, but it really doesn't look like an inviting deal. These men are going to be risking their lives for little or no reward. They aren't even fighting for our country. From my understanding, they'll be glorified mercenaries for the government." "True, true," muttered Hawk. "I don't like it either, but we will have some control. They are technically under your command Conrad." Hawk reached into the manila folder that he had received, pulled out a stack of papers and handed them to Duke. "These are your transfer orders. Hollingsworth slipped them into my briefing information." Duke took the sheaf of papers and quickly thumbed through the documents. "Apparently I'm being transferred to Yuma, Arizona to work at a new flight school," read Duke. "However, I will be travelling across the states to recruit my staff. All the contact information for the sixteen names on the list is in this folder." Hawk removed his dress cap and ran his fingers through his slightly greying hair. He had had it cropped short in the typical marine style since his return to the regular services. "Well you better get a move on," bellowed Hawk, mimicking the officers who had just left. "You report for duty in ninety-six hours. That leaves four days for you to recruit your team and have them report to Yuma. It says in my orders that you are to return to Washington to receive more orders about the mission into Sierra Gordo." With that comment Duke rose from his seat and reached over to shake Hawk's hand. "Pleasure working with you again, General," spoke Duke. "You too, Captain," replied Hawk. "Now lets recruit us some troopers." Duke gave one final salute and turned and marched out of the office. "Yes, lets get G.I.JOE back up and running," whispered Captain Conrad Hauser to himself.  
  
Duke wondered down the hall and back to the information booth where his trek had started that morning. Duke's dapper mood had improved greatly since he first walked into the Pentagon that morning. He was actually looking forward to this latest post. It had been months since he had seen many of the men from the G.I.JOE team and he was looking forward to having a hand in reproducing one of the toughest anti-terrorist outfits of all time. Duke strolled up a flight of steps just before reaching the exit. He remembered that another former G.I.JOE member had been posted to the Pentagon. Jack Morelli enrolled straight into the army out of high school, fuelled by his desire to learn more about electronics. He had been interested in radios and the like since he was a boy, and by the age of sixteen he had his own ham radio station. He funded his interest by bagging groceries to pay for the parts and built all of his equipment himself. He served for a telecommunications officer in the regular US Army, proving to be one of the best radiomen in the business. It was then that he was spotted by the powers that be and was brought into the G.I.JOE team. Since the demise of G.I.JOE, Jack Morelli, code name: Dial Tone, had been serving the rest of his time in the military at the Pentagon, working on some top-secret code breaking procedures. He had the intention of serving the rest of his time, saving to open an electronics store as a civilian. Duke rapped on the door thrice. "Just a second," a voice drifted from under the door. A chair scraped on the floor, followed by a drawer slamming, and finally the door creaked open. "Duke," exclaimed Dial Tone. "The one and only," replied Hauser, clasping Jack on the shoulder. "It's been a long time old buddy." "Too long," lamented Dial Tone. "So how the hell are you?" "You know, ups and downs. Military life," spoke Duke. "Yeah, I know how it is," laughed Dial Tone. "So what's the reason for your visit?" Dial Tone led Duke into a sparsely furnished room, containing only a desk, two well-worn office chairs and a jumble of electronic paraphernalia. Sitting on the desk was a photograph of some of the G.I.JOE members who were recruited the same year as Dial Tone. "The class of '86 hey?" asked Duke. "Yep," replied Dial Tone, followed by a brief silence. "Memories" "Sure are some good ones," responded Duke. "Look at some of those faces. Mainframe, Cross Country, Beach Head, Wet Suit, Low Light, Sci-Fi, Iceberg." "Leatherneck, Lift Ticket," continued Dial Tone, "Slip Stream." "Memories," repeated Duke. "So what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" asked Dial Tone. Duke snapped back into the present. "I actually need your help." "Yes, sir Top," Dial Tone gazed at the bars that had been presented to Duke less then an hour earlier. "Anything for you, oh Captain, my Captain." " I need help locating these men quickly and efficiently," Duke passed the list of names that were in his orders. "Well I can help you with a few already," replied Dial Tone, gazing down the list. "Outback, Hit and Run, Recondo and Recoil are all serving at the same base down in Florida. You're out of luck with Captain Jefferies. He's flying commercial airliners, and Down Town is down and out. Apparently he's gone AWOL and fallen out of contact with everyone. I heard he's had a battle with the bottle." "That's a shame. He was a good man and a hell of an artillery expert. Do you think you will be able to locate the others?" asked a now dejected Duke. "Shouldn't be too much of a problem." Dial Tone took a seat behind his desk and began typing on his computer. "I've been trying to keep in contact with most of the ex-G.I.JOE's. I don't know where everybody is, but I know some people who would know where almost the entire force would be. By the way, sorry Duke, take a seat." Dial Tone removed some electronics magazines from a chair and dropped them on the floor. He returned to his computer and resumed talking. Duke glanced again around Dial Tone's cramped office, taking in the intricate objects that littered the room. "Duke," Dial Tone spoke up, "You aren't going to like this. Alpine, Rampart and Effects aren't in the army any more. Chuckles is listed in the computer data, but there's no information. That obviously means that he's still a spook and that whatever he's doing is classified. I'll print you out a list of addresses and contact information for the others." Dial Tone reached for the printer switch and turned it on. "Thanks Jack." Said Duke as he took the piece of paper that had just spewed from the printer next to Dial Tone's computer. "May I ask exactly what I am helping you with?" queried Dial Tone. "Classified," responded Duke with a wink, " However, since I've probably told you too much already." Duke proceeded to relay the events of the past morning to Dial Tone. "Well, from what you told me Captain, it doesn't say you can't bring in any additional help for this special project." smirked Dial Tone. "True, true," grinned Duke. "How would you like to be in charge of recruitment for this little mission?" "Would I?" repeated Dial Tone. "Off the record of course," chortled Duke. "I'm only a Captain. I can't change your orders." "I have a fortnights leave due. It's not as if anybody will miss me here," Dial Tone grinned, "I can be ready to leave in thirty-six hours." "Okay. We'll fly out in two days then," replied Duke. "Till then," Duke rose from his seat and walked out the door.  
  
Sgt. Jack Morelli and Captain Conrad Hauser walked down the beaten tarmac, which lead to the C-130 plane they would be taking down to Florida to meet up with a few of the troops they had managed to locate through the computer search that Dial Tone had performed. In addition to Outback, Hit and Run, Recoil and Recondo, by a stroke of good luck Tunnel Rat was found to be also serving at the same base. From there they would be flying to South Dakota to a classified security area where they would hopefully meet up with two more troops on the list, then they would continue across the country to Washington state, and then down to San Diego, California to a navy base where the Navy SEALs were posted. They would then make their journey to Yuma, Arizona where their training would commence. "How are you feeling?" asked Dial Tone, as he climbed the ramp at the back of the aircraft. "My stomach feels like it has a million butterflies in it," replied Duke. "And you?" "I haven't felt like this since the time I first joined G.I.JOE," answered Dial Tone. They both took seats in the rear of the C-130. Apart from the pilots, Dial Tone and Duke were the only people on the aircraft, which was filled with spare parts for personnel carriers that were laying idol down in Florida.  
  
"Better fasten your seatbelts, sirs," came the voice of the co-pilot who had stumbled into the back of the aircraft to give the equipment in the back a final check to make sure it was all secure. Duke and Dial Tone both reached for their belts and secured them tightly. The co-pilot returned to his seat and buckled up. The pilot began flicking switches to turn the engine over. The plane's roared to life. They taxied slowly onto the runway. From there it built up speed as it screamed along the tarmac. Duke's stomach turned as the plane gradually lifted off the ground. No matter how many times he flew, he could still barely stomach the ill feeling he got at the point of takeoff. The popping in his ears was still something he was not comfortable with even though he had hundreds of flying hours notched up, most of which he was behind the stick. Slowly after a steady climb the plane reached its optimum cruising height and began the journey towards Florida where both Duke and Dial Tone hoped they'd have some luck in recruiting the new G.I.JOE unit.  
  
For the majority of the flight Duke and Dial Tone reminisced about their years in the G.I.JOE force, from humble beginnings in the early 1980's until the mid to late 80's when G.I.JOE was the largest anti terrorist task force in the world, with over two hundred different members from numerous countries across the planet. But that had all changed in the mid 1990's. G.I.JOE's arch nemesis Cobra had gone underground with their criminal activities, and after numerous threats during the early 1990's, in September 1994, the government ruled that G.I.JOE was no longer economically viable. The unit was disbanded and the troops who served were either returned to the regular Armed Forces or were offered their discharge from the military. Many of the former team members did take the latter option and went on to civilian careers.  
  
After standing up to stretch his legs, Duke gazed out the grimy window of the cargo plane. He noticed that the fluffy white clouds outside were slowly disappearing above him, which meant the plane was slowly beginning its descent. He then gazed downwards and noticed that the plane, which had been flying over the Atlantic Ocean for the better part of the journey, had now returned over the land. He could just make out small trees along the edge of what looked like farming land. "Better buckle up," said Duke to Dial Tone who was leaning against the remnants of an engine of some description, as he returned to his seat. "We're landing soon by the looks of it." "All right," replied Dial Tone as he stood up and made his way back to the passenger seats in the back of the plane. "What's our ETA?" shouted Duke to the pilot, trying to be heard over the roar of the planes four mighty engines. "About twenty minutes, Sir," responded the pilot. "Jesus!" bellowed Dial Tone suddenly and loud enough to be heard clearly over the plane. "What is it?" queried Duke, his senses alert. "Ah that stupid hunk of metal I was leaning against was covered in oil," Dial Tone lamented, showing Duke his filthy hands. "I'm covered in this goop." Duke tried to hide the smile that was spreading across his face, but failed miserably. "Oh you think this is funny, do you?" cackled Dial Tone. He reached over to the piece of machinery he had been leaning against and rubbed his hand along the underbelly of the contraption. He removed his hand, which now oozed with grease. "With all due respect, Sir." started Dial Tone, and launched the wad of machine lubricant all over Duke's finely pressed dress uniform.  
  
Sgt. William Howard watched from the tarmac of the Cape Canaveral Air Force base as a C-130 approached the runway. Howard removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Forty-four years he had been in the services, and one of his last tasks as a military man was to pick up two officers he had been told were in Florida for a special mission. Howard spat out the side of his mouth. In the good old days William Howard had been a fair-haired seventeen year old looking for adventure when he enlisted in the United States Army. He got more then adventure when he was a private at the tail end of the Korean conflict, at the front lines he experienced the horrors of war and lost many buddies along the way. He received a purple heart after being shot in the chest while trying to take a small village along the South/ North Korean border. When he returned to the continental United States after recuperating, Howard transferred to the motor pool where he learnt the ins and outs of the mechanics of various war machines. Howard went on to serve in two tours of Vietnam in a non-combat role, repairing and maintaining various helicopters and other military paraphernalia. William Howard had a long and distinguished career in the military, however promotions seemed to pass him by. That had never bothered the grizzled veteran. What bothered him was the way the military had begun to run. There was an influx of politically correct ideas in the services that bothered the old soldier. Political correctness was not something that Howard saw as a viable option in the military. The military Howard believed, was about defending your country, and killing an enemy to do so. He failed to see how there was a politically correct way to kill anybody. The United States Army was also entering an era where there were less and less men of war. Instead they had been replaced by paper pushing bureaucrats who were using their military ranking to further their political careers. These bureaucrats were the same individuals who decided that it was no longer economically viable to keep on a sixty-one year old staff sergeant, and were forcing William Howard into retirement. The plane hit the runway and bounced before touching down again. It taxied down the runway, its flaps lowered to reduce the speed of the craft. Sgt. Howard climbed back into the jeep he was driving to head over towards the hangar that the plane was pulling up. The old jeep's engine rumbled to life at the turn of the key, and Howard felt his bones jolt as he careened over the roughly paved road on the way to meet the two soldiers he was there to pick up. The jeep screeched around the corner as Howard accelerated towards the gate that led to the hangar. Although the top military brass may have considered Howard past his used by date, the old sergeant still had a lust for adventure. His eyes gleamed as the automobile climbed past seventy miles per hour on a road that had a speed limit of thirty. He brought the old crate to a sudden holt as he reached the main entrance to the hangar. Howard brushed his hand over his finely pressed uniform and straightened his cap. Although Howard was to retire in a matter of three weeks, and although he did not know or care less about the officers he was there to pick up and taxi to the net army base, he was a strict military man and felt he should meet the highest military standards when meeting a superior officer. Sgt. Howard glanced down at his spit shined boots that he had polished every day for the last forty odd years. He could see a blur of his reflection on the toes of his boots. Satisfied, William Howard walked through the hangar to find the two officers he was there to meet. Duke and Dial Tone picked up their bags and began to disembark from the plane. "Be careful Captain," smirked Dial Tone. " That motor oil is very slippery." Duke wiped a glob of dark, murky, smelly green machine lubricant from his hair. "Thanks for the word of warning, Sergeant," laughed Duke, smiling at the blotches of oil that marred Dial Tone's dress uniform. "We'll have to find somewhere to change," grinned Dial Tone. "I don't think that we will endear ourselves to anybody if we're covered in filth." As they made their way down the ramp to approach the hangar, Sgt. William Howard approached them. "Have you two grease monkeys seen a couple of officers who should have been on that flight that just landed?" queried Howard. Duke and Dial Tone glanced at each other. They were both dishevelled after their journey, and with most of their uniforms covered in motor oil and machine lubricant, it was almost impossible to see the ranks that adorned their outfits. Howard continued on. "That's the military for you. I was sent here to pick up two high and mighty military specialists on special orders. And what happens when I show up to pick up these two bozos? They ain't here, that's what. I wish this damn organization would get their act together, instead o' panderin' to a bunch o' sissies in the office." There was a brief silence "So where are you heading?" asked Duke after Howard had ended his tirade. "Oh, I gotta head over to the army barracks just up north o' 'ere." replied a very annoyed sergeant. He pointed the barracks out on a worn road map. Duke smiled inwardly, hoping not to give away his identity. "That's where we're heading actually. Reckon if those guys don't show up we could hitch a ride up there with you?" "Well." pondered Howard, looking at the muck that covered the two. "We'll get cleaned up of course," spoke up Dial Tone. "I suppose it'll be all right then. You got orders fellas?" Duke and Dial Tone simultaneously reached for their pockets. "I don't wanna see 'em. I just wanna make sure you ain't havin' me on. Anyway I'll give you five minutes to get cleaned up," said Howard. With that Duke and Dial Tone grabbed their bags and headed into the hangar where the pilots had gone. They managed to talk the pilots in allowing them to use the showers in a near by barracks. After a quick scrub, the two former G.I.JOES changed into sets of clean camouflaged green BDU'S and after each borrowing garbage bags from the mess hall to stash their soiled gear, headed towards the jeep where an impatient Sgt. Howard was still waiting. "They still haven't shown up, so I guess you two fellas have got yourselves a ride," Howard muttered as he spat on the ground. Duke and Dial Tone threw their gear into the back of the jeep and dived in after it. Howard threw the vehicle into gear and sped backwards down the track that led out of the section of the base where the hangar was located. "You fellas want to take the scenic route?" asked Howard. "Sure," replied Duke and Dial Tone in unison. Sgt. Howard swung the wheel in a sharp turn and headed along a track that led towards the cape. They bypassed the most famous launch site in the world, where most of the worlds successful rocket launches had taken place.  
  
Dial Tone gazed through the fence line. "Can't really see much from here," he quipped. "There ain't much to see," muttered Howard. "Just a scorch mark on the tarmac." Howard swung the wheel to the left and headed out the gate towards the main highway. At the gate he showed his orders to an MP on duty who nodded his head. He then sped down a track, which lead to the highway. Most of the journey went on in silence. Howard was lost in his own thoughts and Duke and Dial Tone were both deep in thought about their upcoming mission. There were many unknown elements that both soldiers were worried about. However Duke was the more concerned of the two due to the fact that he was the official liaison for this mission, and the success or failure of it fell solely on his shoulders, whereas Dial Tone had no official involvement, so its success didn't weigh as heavily on him.  
  
"Well here we are," murmured Howard, pulling into Inglewood Army base. The base itself was spread across a few thousand acres, yet most of the buildings were confined to a small area. A large canopy of trees grew very close to the barracks and almost hid the stucco walled sheds. " Ya know we were in this 'ere jeep for a couple 'o hours, and I didn't catch the names of you fella's." Dial Tone and Duke both glanced at each other in amusement. "Captain Conrad Hauser," spoke Duke. "Sergeant Jack Morelli," grinned Dial Tone. "We're supposed to report to a Major Terrance Lydon. Any idea where we can find him?" asked Duke. "You go down that path." said Howard, "Follow it for half a klik, turn right, then take the first left and he's in the building at the end." "Thanks," replied Dial Tone, suppressing a grin. He and Duke began to wander in that direction. Howard scratched his chin. Even though he had shaved just that morning, he could feel slight stubble on his grizzled face. He reached in to his pocket and pulled out the orders he had received that morning. He read them, screwed up the bit of paper and tossed it into the jeep. "You are required to pick up a Captain Conrad Hauser and a Sergeant Jack Morelli. Bloody new army," he spat.  
  
Dial Tone tapped on the office door of the Major's office. "Come in," came a gruff reply. Duke turned the doorknob and stepped inside a rather spacious, yet sparse office. A figure was bent over behind a desk, which contained a desk lamp, telephone, pen and a few sheets of paper. The figure appeared to be searching through a waste paper basket. "Hauser and Morelli reporting sir," proclaimed Duke, as he and Dial Tone saluted in unison. "It's about freakin' time," boomed a voice from underneath the desk. "I've been waiting for you two to show up for the best part of a year now. I could do with a little action in my life. You have no idea how freakin' boring my life has been since the G.I.JOE team disbanded last year. All I've been doin' is sitting here pushing papers." "Sir?" queried Duke as the figure rose from behind the desk. "Don't recognise me Duke? I was supposed to be your replacement." "Grid Iron?" asked Dial Tone incredulously. "Yeah that's me." Grid Iron replied. "But don't ever use that freakin name around me again. I hated it from the time it was given to me." "Sorry Sir?" queried Duke. "Oh you probably don't know the story do you?" Lydon asked, picking up his wastepaper basket and dumping the contents on his desk. "I went to West Point because since I was a child I'd wanted to be in the army like my father. I studied really hard and managed to get in. I'd played high school football as a kid and had a pretty good arm. Anyway once I got into college, I played a little bit to relieve the pressure of studying all the time. Some high and mighty general saw me play in a game, and he must have had a lot of money on it. We won the game, and the next week I got a promotion. Some how this goose of a general decided to make me a poster boy for the army or something. He went as far as to call me Captain Grid Iron and stick me in the G.I.JOE team as a field commander. And didn't I succeed in that job Duke?" Major Lydon stared at Duke. "Well Sir." mumbled Duke. "Not that I blame the Joes of course. How the hell could you follow a Joe who had football grenades? Freakin' football grenades, Duke. I was ashamed to carry the freakin' things. And you won't believe how much those ridiculous pieces of crap cost. You could buy a second hand jeep for the price of one of those. And when I got injured in the Cobra attack on Pitt III that was pretty well the end of my role on the battlefield. Now I have a nice cosy office job. Well that's enough of my whinging. Sorry about getting off the topic at hand. I've been ordered by the superiors that I'm to help you in any way I can. So what will it be?" Duke reached into the top pocket of his BDU's. He pulled out an oil-smeared envelope and handed it to the Major. Lydon tore open the envelope pulled out a sheet of paper and quickly read through it. "I'd love to help you out Duke, but I'm afraid I can't," said Terrance Lydon matter-of-factly. "With all due respect Sir, our orders say." began Duke. "Its not that I don't want to help you, it's that I physically can't under the circumstances," replied Lydon. "You're requesting that I hand over Recondo, Outback, Hit and Run and Recoil. Well I can't do that." "Why not?" asked Dial Tone. "Very simple," stated the Major, "Recoil was shot in the chest during the Trucial Abysimia conflict and was pensioned out of the army three years ago. Recondo and Outback have never served at this base and Hit and Run is..well I suppose you can have Hit and Run." "That's impossible," fumed Dial Tone. "I tracked down the details of those former Joes on the DOD computer. They said that those guys were all here serving at this base." Duke was considerably annoyed. "Dial Tone, I think we've been given a red herring. I've had my doubts about this mission from the start." Major Lydon spoke up. "Did you get this information directly from the CO of this mission?" "Well no," admitted Dial Tone, " Some I got from some ex Joes I'm still in contact with, and the rest I got from the government computers." "How many ex Joes are you still in contact with?" queried Lydon. "Not too many. Mainly the ones who went back into civilian life." Dial Tone said. "Well that could be your problem there," continued Lydon. "Most of the G.I.JOEs were highly qualified operatives. The best of the best. It seems to me that even though the military is currently being run into the ground, there has to be at least one politician who would have enough brains to keep special ops troops ready to fight. So obviously a lot of the ex Joes would currently be involved with classified missions, and that was why the military listed their postings as here. I wouldn't be very surprised at all if this is the case with most of your information." Dial Tone shook his head in disbelief. "I'm sorry Duke. I had no idea. The information I got was all of the army computer system." Duke shook his head in bewilderment. "It isn't your fault Jack. I think we've been set up to fail from the start. Even on the original list that those jerk offs gave me half the troops you already worked out weren't on it before we even left. Its just par for the freakin' course. Absolute dip shit, dumb arse turds in charge trying to organise an op with guys who aren't even in the freakin' services anymore." Duke pounded his fist on the desk. "If you're quite done Captain." spoke up Lydon. Duke regained his composure, realising the way he had behaved in front of a superior officer. "I'm sorry Major Lydon, Sir." Lydon continued. " As I was saying Captain, if you are quite finished I suggest you pick up that telephone that is sitting dangerously close to the edge of my desk, ringing the dead shits who put you in charge of this op and giving them hell. This shits me up the freakin' wall. I really freakin' hate those dumb bastards screwing over the people who are here to protect this country and their sorry arses." "Thank you Sir," smiled Duke, and meaning it. Hauser had never really liked Lydon when he had been introduced as the new field commander of G.I.JOE by pencil pushing bureaucrats in the early nineties. However G.I.JOE operated independently from the regular military services, and although the political heads could get a troop into the unit by political pressure, they had no authority over the team. And it was because of this that Lydon, AKA Captain Grid Iron was never accepted as a member of the Joe team by the troops, and the commander of the team, Hawk, saw this and kept Duke in charge as field commander of the team. Lydon's career as a G.I.JOE was severely hindered when he suffered a bullet through a kidney during what was referred to as the Battle of PITT 3 and spent months in the hospital as a result of the injury and the subsequent infection that followed that almost killed the old West Pointer. But with guts and determination, Terrance Lydon had pulled through, was promoted to Major and put in charge of the troops on the base where he served to this day. Duke had a newly found respect for the Major. He held a relatively high rank, yet was willing to go to bat for Hauser, even though it was indirectly Hauser's fault that Lydon never succeeded as a G.I.JOE. "Thanks Terry," Duke smiled. "What are old Joes for?" Lydon gave Hauser an affectionate punch in the arm. Hauser picked up the phone and dialled Hawk's number. Hawk's secretary picked up the telephone on the third ring. "General Clayton Abernathy's office," came a thick Southern accent over the receiver. "Captain Hauser to speak to General Abernathy please," Duke drawled. "General Abernathy is out to lunch Captain. Can I take a message?" was the secretary's response. "Can you have him call me on." Duke proceeded to give the number. "ASAP?" "I'll have him call you as soon as he returns from lunch," the secretary signed off. Duke put down the receiver. "Hawk's out to lunch. And I need him to get in contact with the other generals to get some answers." "So we just sit and wait?" queried Dial Tone. "War is ninety-nine percent waiting, one percent mayhem," muttered Lydon. "And I freakin hate waiting." The Major picked up the receiver and dialled an internal phone. "I'd like someone to man the phone in my office. I'm expecting a very important call. Very well," the conversation went. Lydon stood up and walked to the door of his office. "Follow me gentlemen." They exited the office and walked down a long and winding path to a door that was heavily bolted and secured. "The armoury," the Major simply said. He turned the key in the padlock on the door, removed it and pushed on the solid oak hatch. It swung open soundlessly. The hinges were obviously well taken care of. Terry Lydon reached inside the doorway and turned a switch. The room was flooded with light. The Major stood aside and let Hauser and Morelli enter the room. "What we're looking for is in this locker," said Lydon as he turned the two solid stainless steel handles. The double doors swung open. Inside sat a variety of ordinance. "Here you go," spoke Lydon as he handed out a large piece of moulded steel to both Dial Tone and Duke. "What are we supposed to do with these?" asked Dial Tone. "These," grinned Maj. Lydon, "Are football grenades. Lets go and blow shit up with them while we're waiting for Hawk to get back to us."  
  
A jeep careened around the dusty path that ran along side the firing range. A young corporal climbed out of the vehicle and approached the three soldiers who were at the end of the field that ran to the target. "Fire in the hole," one of them hollered as he launched a spiralling metal object through the air. The object travelled almost forty feet before ploughing into the ground. Upon impact the object erupted into a ball of flames, leaving an enormous divet where a target had once stood. "Ah.Excuse me Sirs," stuttered the young corporal, "I have a telephone call for a Captain Conrad Hauser." "That's me son," responded Duke, buttoning up his shirt. His arms bulged under the rolled up sleeves of his BDU shirt that was wet under the arms with perspiration. The corporal handed Hauser the portable telephone he was carrying. "Duke here." "This is Hawk," came the voice from the phone. "You obviously wouldn't have called unless you had a reason. So, got a SITREP?" "Hawk," started Duke, "This whole mission looks FUBAR from the start. The information we have been given is up the shit. The guys on the list are either civilians, not at the places they've been listed, or just plain can't be found. I don't need to tell you how pissed off I am General." There was a slight pause before General Hawk spoke again. " I don't know how much help I can be to you Duke. This isn't my op. The only thing I can do is try and get in contact with General Hollingsworth, and get him to contact Hampshire then get back to you." "Thanks Hawk," Duke smiled. He knew that General Hawk was one person he could rely on to go to bat for him. " I knew there was something not kosher about this op. It looks like a lose- lose situation. Be careful Duke." "Will do Hawk," Duke ended the call and handed the portable telephone back to the corporal. The young enlisted man saluted all three of the ex-Joes, returned to his jeep and drove back down the dusty track that lead towards the barracks. "So?" asked Dial Tone. "We sit tight and wait for word from Hawk," Duke responded. "Well you can bunk here tonight and wait for word from whoever organised this shit fight," growled Lydon. "And by the way, who organised it?" "Some goose named Hampshire," muttered Dial Tone. "Hampshire? Rohan Hampshire?" asked Major Lydon. "That's him," Duke recalled. "He seemed like a bit of a sissy. Slimy son of a bitch too. The guy must have been using moisturising cream or something. His handshake was like touching a lubricated part of a machine. But apparently he was a hero in Vietnam or something." "He's a bad egg," muttered the Major. "I've heard that he had some involvement in a country that will forever remain nameless where thirty-six of our men bought the farm because of piss poor planning, yet this jerk came out smelling of roses and was promoted. I'm pretty sure that he got lucky in 'Nam as well. Apparently one of his corporals saved the majority of the platoon and Hampshire took the credit. The corporal was killed before they got back." "Whose arse was he kissing to get where he got then?" Dial Tone enquired, scratching the slight stubble on his chin. "Its more the question of whose rear he didn't have his lips wrapped around," Terrance Lydon responded, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "You name it, he was pissing in their pocket. Rumour has it he was on with a very important politician's wife, and a certain Mrs Hampshire found out. Apparently Mrs Hampshire then fell off their porch just mere hours after the event, yet the contusions on her skull showed a little more force then hitting a step. To cut a long story short gentlemen; Mrs Hampshire is now resting in a nursing home in upstate New York. She suffered severe brain damage and doesn't have any short or long term memory." "I take it our favourite general was heartbroken," smiled Dial Tone without mirth. "Yeah," said Lydon simply. With that he picked up another football shaped grenade and launched it spiralling across the shooting range. "Fire in the hole," hollered Dial Tone. A loud explosion followed, sending chunks of dirt flying in all directions.  
  
"I think that'll do me today fellas. I haven't been able to get the distance I used to since I was shot in the PITT." Lydon began to rub his shoulder with his left hand. "Yeah," said Dial Tone stretching his long limbs. His body was beginning to cramp up after the long plane ride followed by the two-hour journey to the Inglewood Army Base located sixty miles west of Pensacola. "We should probably get some chow and hit the hay. It's been a fairly long day." "No problem Jack," Lydon grinned, "I could use a feed too." The trio began the mile long hike back to the mess hall, taking in the scenery as they went. The trees and shrubs that littered the interior of the base were similar to that of the swamps down in the southern part of the state in the Florida Everglades. This in itself was unusual because the area of Florida where they currently stood was in between two fields where major orange juice manufactures grew their product. The three soldiers continued wandering until they reached their destination. "You two can bunk in barracks three tonight," coughed Lydon. "There's a couple of empty racks in there. It ain't the Hilton, but it'll have to do." "Thanks Terry," quipped Duke. "And where can we grab some chow. The food on the plane here was pretty average." "Yeah, and the in flight movie was pretty freakin' bazaar. It was about some terrorist dudes who were confronted by a bunch of weird alien looking dudes in the Himalayas," giggled Dial Tone. "Sounds like fun for the whole family," smirked Lydon. "Who'd it have in it? Don Johnson or some other bad 1980's TV series star?" Dial Tone and Duke just smiled. The Major pushed open the door of the mess and they entered. The smell of roast beef filled the room and wafted in their direction. "Smells pretty good considering its army food." Duke bellowed. They picked up a tray at the end of the large buffet style servery, and proceeded down the length of the table spooning generous portions of steamed pumpkin, carrot and mashed potato. The meat was being carved by a tall, lanky African American fellow who seemed to be muttering away to himself quietly. "And he takes the knife and sweeps back and forth. Will he succeed in carving the meat from the bone before the clock runs out? Yes!!!!!! Big Lob scores." Duke glanced towards Dial Tone and Major Lydon and shook his head from side to side. Dial Tone stifled a chuckle and Major Lydon rolled his eyes up into the back of his head quickly. "Don't ask," whispered the Major. "Thank you soldier," grinned Dial Tone, presenting his tray. The soldier stabbed the fork into the slices of pork he had just cut, took three steps back across the linoleum floor and faced the wall. He swung the fork backwards over his head, sending the meat flying off the end of the fork. It sailed through the air and landed splat in the middle of the tray in Dial Tone's calloused hands. "And the crowd goes bananas," hollered the lanky trooper. A stare by the Major silenced the corporal who called himself Big Lob, and he finished serving the meat in silence. The three officers took a seat at a nearby table. "So what's with the guy who's carving the meat?" asked Duke. "Oh Big Lob?" grinned Lydon, "He's a bit of a basketball nut. Good soldier though. He also has really bad luck. He was one of those kids who were a talented athlete in school. The Phoenix Suns drafted him when he finished high school. He trained with them in the off-season and was set to make his debut, but he had a mishap at training and wrecked his knee. He needed a whole reconstruction and it finished his basketball career. He joined up in the services to pay bills once he healed and turned into a pretty good soldier. He even tried out to get a place in the Joe team in '87, but the drill sergeant, what was his name? Slaughter? Pushed him too hard and he re- injured his knee. He hasn't really been normal since. But he's a good hand. Doesn't hurt anyone." There was a brief silence as the three began to eat. "So," spoke Dial Tone, swallowing a spoonful of mashed potatoes, "What's our plan of action for this mission?" "Well it seems like a total screw up from start to finish," muttered Hauser. "The planning is up the shit, we've got diddly in the way of information and the men we were given contact information for aren't where they are supposed to be." "You know what you should do Duke?" questioned Hauser. "What would that be Major?" Duke asked, raising his eyebrows. "What you need to do is plan this mission the way you would want to run it. For all intents and purposes you are the commander of this force. Take responsibility. Find your own troops. Use your own initiatives. Go with guys who you can rely on, guys who you know will be there for the team. The guys who are more or less anonymous. The guys who won't be recognised by the enemy. Guys who can lead and follow. Guys you can trust. Guys who know what they're doing. Guys who are survivors." "Well that seems like the thing to do in retrospect," continued Duke, "But what if the superiors don't go for it?" "Why wouldn't they?" asked Dial Tone, "Part of the deal is that they want complete deniability. Not to mention the fact that they are shitting on the services. We could probably get them to package out half of the countries defences and they wouldn't give a damn." "They'd do it just to be pricks," Duke lamented, "Have you ever known a military operation to run smoothly, even though it doesn't need to be as complicated as its made." The trio sat there in silence. Duke finally spoke up. "Although Major, your idea has merits. We really could sit here and plan out a decent group of guys who would work well as a team." "So who would you want on a team to send to Sierra Gordo?" queried Dial Tone. "Well." began Duke, "I don't really know. There are so many guys who are suited for the job that it's hard to pick the few." "Well okay then, let's start with the list Hampshire gave us," chortled Dial Tone, an excited pitch now in his voice. "Okay," replied Duke, removing the piece of paper with the list of names from his pocket. He spread it out across the table, smoothing out the wrinkles with his hand. "Well from the list I can see that all the guys would be useful. But from memory, most of them aren't going to be easy to reach." Dial Tone spoke up. "I'm pretty sure Beach Head is unavailable, plus the other guys who we've already crossed off the list. So that doesn't leave too many." "Well," said Duke, "I personally don't want to use Effects or Mirage. I don't know enough about them, and I can't use operators I don't know, and therefore can't trust." "Well that's fair enough," the Major replied, "So I guess you have to start your list pretty much from scratch." "Well Duke," Dial Tone began, "Lets do that. Who do we want and need on a GIJOE team?" "Well we need some experience, some leadership and some specialists." Lydon put in. "Well from the list we've got, I'd say that Repeater and Outback are probable, as is Hit and Run," Duke pondered. "The others we would have to look into," Dial Tone thought out loud, "I'm pretty sure Chuckles is still in the spy game somewhere, and apart from the three you mentioned, not too many of the guys on the list seem like viable options." "Okay then," Major Lydon growled, "Who should we look towards getting on the team?" "Well if we include Repeater, Outback and Hit and Run, we have a good start there," Duke scratched his nose, "I'd like a little experience on the team too. What do you guys think of Grand Slam?" Dial Tone wiped a pool of gravy from his mouth. As he wiped his face with the serviette, he succeeded in spreading the brown goo through his moustache. "You mean James Barney? Yeah, he'd bring some experience to the team. Who else?" Lydon piped in, "What about Muskrat? He's a swamp fighter. He'll be useful in the Sierra Gordan jungle." "True," Hauser replied, "We could also use some more jungle troops as well. How about Ambush? And Spearhead as well." "Footloose could also work too," added Dial Tone, "He may be a little off the wall, but he's a good guy, and is very good in the jungle as well." "That's a good suggestion," Duke agreed, "And we'll need some more men as well who will be able to provide some firepower and skills too." "Well we could use Scoop for advanced reconnaissance," spoke up Lydon. "And you know who else deserves a chance?" asked Dial Tone, "Dodger. He lost pretty well his entire platoon, and ever since then he became a time bomb. If we directed his anger at an enemy, there's no doubt in my mind that we'd have a bona fide killing machine." "Well that seems all right by me," Duke replied, "We could use some killers in the army." "You know who would also be an asset to the team?" continued the Major, "Lightfoot. I've read his report. He went through Joe training twice. You'd know Duke; you were one of the drill sergeants when he and Repeater joined the team. But prior to that he went on a mission into Trucial Abysimia. The one where that kid Mangler bought the farm. Apparently he saved the mission after the shit hit the fan. He deserves a shot. Plus he's an expert with explosives." "Yeah, I can see your point, "Duke responded. "Well that looks like the corps of our team," Dial Tone stated. "Just as long as we can use these guys," Duke muttered in between spoonfuls of carrots. "Well there's only one way to find out," grinned Lydon, mopping up the last of the gravy on his tray with a slice of bread, "We'll give Hawk a call as soon as we finish our meal." With that he picked up his tray and placed it on a table where the soiled crockery was sitting, waiting to be washed. Dial Tone and Duke followed in his wake. It was just past 2000 hours. Duke picked up the telephone in Major Lydon's sparse office and dialled the number for General Abernathy's office. Although the General had his own town house in Washington, he was seldom there. Duke felt confident that he would find Hawk in the building. The telephone rang twice then Hawk picked up the receiver. "Abernathy here." "It's me Hawk," Duke replied, "Any word yet?" "Oh yeah," Hawk began, his voice with an edge of excitement to it, "You won't believe the stuff that's gone down up here in the last twelve hours, Duke." "And what might that be General?" asked Duke. "Well I'm not at liberty to say anything except that General Hampshire is no longer in charge of your mission anymore, and that now this top secret mission you are on will now fall under my command." Duke was stunned by the news. He was at a loss for words. "Anyway Duke, I'm going to have to cut this conversation short. A couple of MP's are waiting to escort me to the Pentagon where I'm to be interviewed in my dealings with a certain individual we both just met. I'm giving you full control over this op Duke. Anything you think will work go for it. And do what's best for the men, because I doubt they'll get any help from Uncle Sugar." They said their goodbyes then Duke hung up the phone. "Well?" asked Dial Tone. Duke smiled. "It's a go. We start at 0700 hours tomorrow morning."  
  
Sergeant Brent Scott wandered out of the scrub of Inglewood Army Base and made his way towards the dirt track that served as access to the barracks of the camp. He had been on a simulation mission with some other troops over the past three days, training in various forms of advanced reconnaissance and anti terrorist tactics. Scott had commanded a small force to take over a small hut that had been assembled in the surrounding jungle where more of the bases soldiers were playing terrorists. The act called for the "terrorists" inside the hut to be holding hostages. It was Brent Scott's job to get a small group of men to neutralise the threat, and free the hostages from the hut. Although the mission had been a success, Sergeant Scott was not very happy with the performance. He saw himself as a loner who wreaked mayhem when it was required, then vanished without a trace. He wasn't overly fond of conducting rescue missions that were designed for him and his men to succeed. He knew that when it came to real life hostage situations, everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and that you never really learnt anything from a scripted hostage rescue scenario. Sergeant Scott hefted his duffle bag that was swung over his shoulder as he approached the barracks he stayed in. He had been in the sticks for three days scouting the target, and was cold from the early morning attack, and smelly from the three days he'd spent lying in the mud surveying the situation before the attack. He was tired and looking forward to a long, hot shower and a few hours sleep. As he approached the 


End file.
